Fag
by SouthParkUniverse
Summary: Stan has a secret.


**Fag, **_by the South Park Universe Team_

Schoolchildren enjoyed being out in the hallway. Not really because they enjoyed the company and movement, American kids probably hated any movement and only enjoyed interaction on the computer, but because it got them away from having to learn. Learning was bad for a child unless it involved learning television shows line by line. What Craig sucked at most was spelling, and that thought pounded in his brain as he walked with Clyde in the hallway. Or maybe that was the headache caused when Garrison had slapped him across the head. He couldn't decide, which was also because of the headache.

"I don't know why he had to hit me," he said, his emotional and physical well-being damaged.

"You're the idiot who couldn't spell Colorado," Clyde responded as he rolled his eyes. He didn't suffer dumbasses.

Other kids were doing things other than bitching. Stan was happily putting books away- no need for any of these, as he had no homework. God, Stan hated homework. Why the hell did they have them work on stuff for endless hours only to poke their nosy little pricks into their home lives? Plus, he didn't want anything on his mind. Tonight was important, too important to be screwed up by thoughts of long division. God, he hated long division. But he sure didn't hate Kyle, who walked up to him, backpack still full. Why the hell did he take all his books home sometimes?

"Hey Stan! What are you doing tonight? Wanna come over?" Kyle asked eagerly.

"Nah, I can't. I have...something I'm doing tonight," Stan responded, still focusing on his books. The math textbook, his mortal fucking foe. He threw it into his locker with contempt.

"Like what? Can I come?" Kyle asked, yet again with great optimism. He smiled. Moses have mercy, he wanted to get away from his house.

"What are you doing?" Stan asked, unnerved by Kyle's wide and slightly freaky smile. "You probably wouldn't enjoy it anyway, dude," Stan answered, finishing putting his books away. Why was Kyle so creepy sometimes?

"My family is watching "Fiddler on the Roof" again," Kyle replied with a deadpan tone and face. Why couldn't the Jewish people have moves like Star Wars considered to be part of their people's culture? He hates his own people at times.

"Why does your family watch it again?" Stan asked, seriously. He has never seen it and, judging from the way Kyle spoke about it, planned on never seeing it. It was probably for the best.

"Because it's about a Jewish family and it will be good to watch something about 'our' people," Kyle proclaimed, using the air quotes with great emphasis.

"Oh right, didn't you watch that last night?"

"Yes."

"And the night before that?"

"Yes."

"And on Tuesday, when I was sick?"

"Yes." Why did Stan continue with this painful trip down too recent memory fuck lane?

"And on Monday, when YOU were sick?"

"Yes Stan, I have watched it every night of the week, so stop reminding me," Kyle cut in, finishing the damn conversation. "Are you sure I can't come?" He then asked, really hoping for a way out this night.

"Sure, come to my house before five. We should be back around eight," Stan said, sighing and looking down as Butters passed. He guessed that Kyle might make fun of him some, but it would be okay. He was pretty cool.

"Hey, c-can I come?" Butters asked as he turns towards Stan, happy. He liked them! They didn't beat him up as much as the others. And he had gone adventuring with Stan sometimes. Good times... or were they bad? He didn't know sometimes.

"You have NO idea what it is, Butters," Stan replied, struck by how Butters seemed to crawl around and just hear things in school. Stan swore that Butters would make an excellent spy.

"Yeah, b-but my dad is making me-" Butters started, somewhat embarrassed by what he was about to reveal. But it would healthy too, and maybe he could get help. None was coming.

"The answer is no, Butters." Stan cut into Butters' speech like a hot knife through Butter (no pun intended) and then served Butters' soul broiled.

Stan and Kyle finished and walked away, discussing whatever it was they had planned for the night. Butters was left alone and crushed again, as was the custom.

"W-why doesn't anyone ever want to hang out with me?" Butters muttered to himself as he walked over to his locker. "I never get to play with them anymore." He tossed his books into the locker and slams it. "Good for nothin' friends…" he left on as he started walking towards the bathroom.

It was very much a well kept bathroom. That was mostly due to a lawsuit and a little because they cared. Mostly because they didn't want to have the school torn down for stupid hygiene regulations. But regardless, it was clean enough for Butters to walk up to a urinal, drop his pants, raise his shirts, and unleash the waterfall on the world. It was more like a creek, but Butters had a very active imagination. But no amount of imagination could distract his nose from the horrendous odor that blasted its way from the stalls and towards his nose like a charging rhino which was itself trying to escape whatever was making the smell. It was as if the stink of a million years of rot had combined just to assault Butters endlessly. The stink was so bad that it felt as if it would stick to him for all time.

And the moaning, the incessant horrible moaning, continued from the stall. It sounded like a dying pig-cat being cooked over an oven.

"No…more…fajitas…Oh my God…" Cartman moaned from the stall, his insides rebelling against him violently. And with terrible odor packing it up. And the sounds. Why did his body hate him so? All he did was ruin it with snack foods and lack of exercise. What was so bad with that?

"Y-You okay in there, Eric?" Butters asked, mentally reeling due to the smell but holding his ground stalwartly. But he wished he didn't have to open his mouth, he could taste the smell.

"Go away, Butters!" Cartman roared in return, less annoyed by Butters and more by the fake that his intestines wanted to exit his body. But he also hated Butters. Man, God did hate him. This day was proof.

"Hey Eric, are you doing anything tonight?" Butters asked, somewhat coming to terms with the smell. Then it came to him that there was no coming to terms with it, and he felt the smell piercing him.

"Nothing involving you- Oh God, oh Go-AIIIEEE! Ah! Oh, thank God, thank Jesus…" Cartman strained. What the hell was leaving his body? Was he pregnant? Was he giving birth to multiple little shitheads? That would explain his weight. And his attitude. And his smells. And food urges.

"Alright, I was just checking to see if you were going to Stan's house f-for whatever he invited Kyle there to do. He s-seemed like he was d-defensive about it," Butters declares as he finishes his business, thank GOD. He could soon escape the smell.

"What is it?" Cartman asks, curious and trying to deflect attention from his own failings as a human waste facility.

"I don't know, and I-I don't think he wants me to know," Butters murmurs as he washes his hand, then defiantly turns to the stall. "Well, that's fine by me. He doesn't want to be m-my friend, he doesn't have to be."

Butters walks- no, FLEES the bathroom. To his sadness, the smell did stick on him and soon dozens would believe had shat himself. It would crash through noses to and fro and shatter the souls of all who smelled it. It was horror defined.

But back to the producer of The Horror. Cartman sat, physically spent from the exertion. But his mind was active with a single question burning him with the power of a thousand tiny, tiny suns.

"What would Gayboy want to show Jewy?" He says as he looks around for toilet paper, his curiosity forcing him to speak aloud.

Fuck no!

"What, no toilet paper?" Cartman paused and then thought of his situation.

"Ahh, shit."

The Marsh living room was an ordered affair on this night. Randy Marsh had his blue suit on complete with tie, a scowl on his face and a beer in his hand. Sharon was in a black formal dress which seemed to come complimentary with her large earrings. Unlike her lovely- well, maybe to her, maybe not- husband, she seemed to be bursting with excitement as she walked into the living room from the kitchen. Stan was in the living room, a backpack strapped to him tightly and his normal brown coat looser with several buttons unbuttoned. An excited look was mixed in with a healthy dose of worry and anxiousness, creating a virtual hurricane of confliction bombarding his overworked mind. Kyle is in his normal clothing- the only thing special about town's favorite Jewish miscreant was the fact he seemed to be stifling a laugh very hard.

It didn't work.

"Hehehe...I...I can't believe you had to wear that when we were being punished," Kyle squeaked out a giggle before stifling. Ah, Stan, you confused jock-like kid you, so full of surprises.

"God, it was awful. I had to beg the other classmates to not post those pictures online and took a few 'sick' days," Stan replied, a rush of excitement and embarrassment mixing to create an odd sense of relief as if the pressure valve on his soul had been loosened.

"Is it all worth it?" Kyle asked, generally seeking an answer. This wasn't his area of knowledge, so he had planned on keeping his opinions on this question to himself. He was a good boy.

"Hell yeah, dude. I have loads of fun," Stan responded, brimming with positive energy. Sometimes it was weird after you just revealed something to someone, but if they truly cared for you, they'd rally to your banner. And Stan was sure that Kyle cared for him. But not in the gay way- that was for fags.

"I just never pegged you as the type," Kyle responded bluntly. It was a little hard thinking of Stan as a football player and partaking in this activity, but Kyle just responded that it was a crazy world and they lived in an even crazier town.

"The what type?" Stan asked, a little offended. There was a type?

"The-" Kyle began, but was cut off as a plot point came up and neatly covered this section. Call it a plot device.

There is a knock at the door, three raspy slams. Kyle cringed- he knew almost immediately who it was and as Sharon answered the door, his heart sank.

Fucking Cartman! The plague that never ceased, worse than the Swine Flu and more annoying than a thousand swarming locusts. His every breath was an affront to Kyle, and he felt like slamming his head into a spinning saw blade every time Cartman spoke. His mouth, so full of lies, tended to block everyone's eyes.

"Hello, Mrs. Marsh. May I come in?" Cartman asked politely, and this was aided by a really nice sweater. And his hair was combed. Why couldn't a thunderbolt just strike his body and incinerate him? At least they could pass it off as pork and give it to the homeless.

"Certainly, Eric," Sharon replied, not catching Cartman's tone. Well, maybe she did. She was a little giddy for the night's event, and more than a little happy for her son for more than one reason.

Cartman bounced on in like an unstoppable gelatinous blob consuming precious oxygen, inspecting the room with his devilish eyes. He approaches Stan, who can feel the void of a dead soul approach.

"Why are you here, Cartman? Stan didn't invite you," Kyle barked violently, Cartman's presence alone having triggered something.

"Oh Kyle, can't a friend come over to see a friend?" Cartman replied with all the niceness he could muster, though his eyes shot through Kyle like bullets from a high powered rifle. "What are you going to show Jewey?" Cartman whispered to Stan, hoping that the pussy would be a better source of information than the Ginger Jew.

"Get out of here, fatass," Stan said bluntly, pointing to the door. He wasn't having this shit in his house.

"Stan, c'mon now, I'm just as cool as Kyle. Maybe I'll be good at it too," Cartman pleads earnestly; less interested in Stan and more in whatever was being kept from him.

Kyle can't contain it any longer. The image of Cartman doing what Stan does races through his mind like Ustian Bolt running from the Ku Klux Klan. He attempts to silence himself, but soon massive bursts of laughter erupt from him, taking everyone by surprise. Stan was not pleased.

"Kyle, shut up," Stan commands fiercely, changing his focus to Kyle.

"I-I can't! HAHAHAHAHAHAH-HAHA-HAHAHAHA!" Kyle laughed so hard that he felt his entire body hurt and finally he fell to his knees, holding his stomach as he continued laughing.

Stan was disgusted, and started pushing Cartman towards the door. He didn't have tome to handle his best friend laughing and the manipulative little asshole trying to weasel his way into the night's activities. He needed to focus, goddamnit.

"Just go, Cartman," Stan mutters as he strong-arms the formerly unstoppable gelatinous blob towards the door.

"But I'm- what the- stop pushing- cut it ou-!" said the disgruntled blob as it was pushed step by gooey step out of the door, which is shut hard behind him.

Cartman sits for a second and thinks before he realizes he has just been thrown out of a house. Fucking pricks!

"Well, f*ck you too!" he yells at the innocent door in a final gesture of futility. He thought about leaving, but his anger forces him to stay for a few more seconds. Good move on his part.

"I just pooped my pants," Marvin Marsh said on the second floor, his voice faint. That generally fit the profile of an old fuck in Cartman's mind.

"Dad, you said you were ready!" Sharon yells back in annoyance. She hated her step father at times.

"I was, then I pooped mah pants," the old fuck replied plaintatively.

"Damnit…Randy, your turn," Sharon could be heard a little vaguely through the door. She wasn't having any of this shit tonight.

"I don't even wanna go to this stupid thing…" the Marsh father responds with mumbling his words in resignation. He didn't want to have anything to do with any of tonight's shit.

Cartman's brain produced an intelligent thought in a rare moment of activity, and it came to him like a flash of lightning that he had some time.

He ran like hell, and if his plan worked, he'd be all up in their shit tonight.

---------  
Butters' house was inactive this night. He had control of the living room, his parents having retired to the bedroom for a talk. Of course, they had hadn't been doing much talking since they went in there. There were moans and names being yelled out, usually his mom calling out his father's name, but no real talking. But Butters shouldn't have been thinking about that; he had homework due and was working pretty gosh darn hard on it. He couldn't but hear things, however; he just happened to have a wandering focus. And that focus was shattered when two hard knocks are applied to the front door, jarring Butters from his homework and sending him in a rush to answer the door.

Cartman! Yay! Well, Butters would be pleased to see anyone since no one ever came to see him. One time, he had let in two Jehovah's Witnesses just to have company. He had been grounded because of that. But he had purchased a subscription to The Watchtower, thinking they'd come back. They didn't. Now he was being punished for being a Jehovah's Witness.

"Butters! This…this is important," Cartman stutters breathlessly in desperation.

"What's wrong Eric?" Butters asked, worried about the person he called friend. Not sure why, though. Maybe because Eric hung out with him, even though it was usually to pull a prank on Butters. But darn it, at least it was better than being alone. A little.

"No time…for talk, I need…your camera," Cartman continues along the same vein.

"Why?"

"Just do what I say, goddamnit!"

Butters did as he was told. He was a good boy.

--------------------------

The Cartman household was not all that quiet, Liane being quite pleased alone on this night. Work on finances needed to be done, and with Eric out, she could get it done. An oldies station was turned on, "Werewolves of London" was on and she drummed her pen to the beat on the side of the dinning room table. Her little piece of heaven is rudely assaulted, molested, shattered, and forced into a nursing home when Lord McFatass barges through the front door like a home invader red faced and about to collapse. Butters follows him in tow, wondering why Cartman was almost close to death. They lived only four houses down. Cartman points to Butters and then his mom several times quickly and almost violently, finally stoking Butters' memory.

"Oh, okay Eric, I-I got it," Butters said hesitantly. He then turned to Liane, who had walked towards the front door and was staring at the two boys in a great mood. _He was looking for a place called Lee Ho Fook's, going to get himself a big dish of beef chow mein. _

"Cartman told me he needs you to tail the Marsh family's car." Butters relayed the message as best he could with that song playing.

"Why can't Eric ask me?" Liane asked, her eyes closed as she started drumming her pen against the wall to the beat. _If you hear him howling around your kitchen door better not let him in._

"Because he knew he was going to be out of breath as his big bones hold him back from his true destiny as a superb athlete so he told me at my house what to say when the cruel fates conspired against him," Butters said slowly at times, trying to remember what he was told line for line while that weird song continued playing. "Yeah, t-that's it," he finished.

"Sure, sweetie," Liane responded, grabbing her car keys. She would listen to the station on the way to whatever they were supposed to be doing or waiting or trailing or whatever. She just wanted to listen to music.

_Better stay away from him  
He'll rip your lungs out, Jim _


End file.
